


Worship at the Root

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Community: daily_deviant, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other, Size Kink, Tree Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco finds the most absolutely perfect prick he has ever seen… it just so happens to be attached to a tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship at the Root

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Daily Deviant's September prompt of phallophilia. The second I saw the prompt this sprang to mind. Not even kidding. Thank you so much to M and M for alphaing and betaing; I adore you both. As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play with them.

Draco finds the tree when he’s in the greenhouse alone, working on a project on the medicinal and magical properties of the various forms of daffodil. He has just finished three paragraphs on the honking daffodil and is so irritated by the annoying, repetitive noise that he just starts walking, needing to be anywhere else. He slips further into the greenhouse, moving into the depths where students don’t usually roam, and stops when he finds a room that seems suspiciously like a forest.

He hadn’t thought they could grow a forest indoors, but apparently Professor Sprout has worked miracles. Draco supposes that if he’d paid attention in class, perhaps he wouldn’t be so surprised. But as it is, this is unexpected and yet, welcome.

Peaceful.

He moves among the trees, fingers trailing over the rough bark. Each one seems different, and each bends slightly as he passes, acknowledging his presence.

They are alive and aware. Draco doesn’t know how he knows this, but it’s true. He’s certain of it.

Some hold branches wide, like arms waiting to embrace. Some have trunks that twist into shapes, and he wonders if these are dryads held captive, growing in the safety of these walls. 

One has a prick.

It takes him by surprise when he finds it, jutting out of the tree, pointing up and slightly to the right. It is thick at the base, wooden balls sculpted neatly, large enough that he’s not sure he could easily hold both in one palm if they were soft, hanging flesh. The prick itself is too wide for his fingers to circle at the base, stretching more than the length of his palm, the head thick and bulbous.

It weeps a sticky, slick sap that is sweet to the taste.

If it were real, it would be exactly what Draco has always desired from another boy. It is as if the size—the length and girth—have been conjured from his fantasies, and now that the war is done and his mind has _time_ to think of sex, he cannot seem to forget about it.

He tells himself that it is only a _tree_. It is a wooden prick and it is _nothing_ to him.

He leaves, refusing to look back at it.

But Draco cannot forget, and when he lies in bed at night, fist wrapped around his cock, trying to get off without making noise to disturb the other boys in the 8th year dorm, he imagines it. He dreams of the way it might feel to take it in his mouth, stretching his lips around it, feeling that slick fluid paving the way to keep the bark from scratching his tongue. He fantasizes about how the fluid might coat it, hiding the rough bark and making it thick and easy to slide into his arse, stretching him wide enough that he would cry out.

He comes with two fingers in his arse, pretending that they are a tree’s prick as he fucks himself on it, and it is one of the best orgasms of his life.

#

Draco tells himself that it is his paper on daffodils that brings him back two days later, but he lies. The parchment is full—a solid twelve inches written, which is two inches more than required for the Herbology class. He needs the O in this NEWT so he can gain the Potions apprenticeship that he desires, and he uses that as an excuse to make his way back to the greenhouse.

But he bypasses the daffodils, and he walks through the rose room, ignoring their heady perfume and the knowledge that he needs to compare and contrast the use of roses in Potions versus their romantic meaning in the wizarding world. He makes his way unerringly to the forest again, and stands between the trees, his own arms lifting up as if he could drink in the sun as they do.

He tries not to look for the prick, but he finds himself there anyway, standing with the tree proud before him. There is a drip of sap at the tip, welling up as he watches, thickening from a droplet to a large bead before it falls. Draco catches it on one fingertip, brings it to his mouth and sighs at the taste.

He can’t explain this desire, but he can’t _stop_ either. He goes to his knees slowly, his fingers curled against the rough bark, gripping the ridges as he presses a kiss to the tip of the wooden prick. Another bead of sap wells up, and he licks at it, which somehow summons more.

It _responds_ to him, and in turn, Draco feels his own prick stir in response to it.

“Fuck it,” he whispers, tongue teasing at the tip. He draws more of the sap out of it, uses his hand to stroke it along the length, and his imagination was nothing in comparison to reality. The sap is thick, quickly coating the long length before he covers it with his mouth, taking it in as deep as he can. 

He has never had a prick in his mouth before, and he is absolutely positive that no other prick will compare after this. It is longer, thicker, harder than he could imagine. It stretches his mouth so wide that his jaw aches after a few bobs along the length. It doesn’t stop him, it doesn’t thrust back, it just stands there, taking it as he fellates the wood. His eyes water when he presses forward, trying to take it all in, feeling the wood at the back of his throat, tasting the knots along the wood. His hand strokes the root of it, slides over the bulbous balls, slicking everything so perfectly. He can’t taste anything but the sweet sap, and he moans when more of it pours down his throat.

His trousers are tented, his erection hard and aching. Draco presses the heel of one hand against it, trying to resist taking it out and pulling one off right here, spilling over the tree. He _wants_. He truly _wants_ , and there is no one here.

What could it hurt?

He opens his trousers, shoves his pants down beneath his balls and spreads his knees wide. It only takes two strokes before he comes with the knotted wooden prick down his throat, spilling sweet liquid that he gulps hungrily while he spills his own juices over the roots of the tree.

He withdraws slowly, pulling back from the root, his throat sore and hunger sated. He gulps for air, breath steadying over minutes of doing nothing more than sitting there, his hand still wrapped around his sticky, flaccid prick.

Then Draco blinks, coming back to himself, and realizes that he is still _in the greenhouse_ and while he may have never explored this far, other students could find him. He quickly tucks himself away and neatens his robes, wiping his hands on the ground to clean them. 

He could cast a spell to cleanse the roots, but he doesn’t want to risk harming the tree, so he leaves the stain of his jism there and simply hopes that no one will notice.

He leaves without looking back, and promises himself that he will not return.

#

Draco is back within days.

He hasn’t been able to forget about the tree, the stiff prick haunting his dreams and consuming his nightly wank sessions. He has to keep a privacy spell tightly woven around his curtains, and he still worries that the others in his dorm can hear him as he cries out, desperate for something that feels as good as that prick would feel.

Two fingers are never enough, and he isn’t flexible enough to manage three on his own. And it doesn’t matter; it is still not _the prick_.

It has developed its own personality in his mind, its own _personhood_. Despite being a piece of wood attached to a tree with two spectacular knots at the base, he sees it as almost _alive_.

And he wants to be fucked by it.

No, Draco _needs_ to be fucked by it.

He has brought the best lubricant that Galleons can purchase, and he intends to open himself carefully. He has no fear for the rough bark; he already knows that the slick sap makes it smooth enough not to injure his throat. The tree is ingenious, really, and he wonders sometimes if someone created it for this purpose.

That way lies madness, for that would admit that someone knows, that someone else might want to use it. That someone else could find him here.

Draco refuses to let himself think of it; this is his tree, his discovery. It is his alone.

He pushes his trousers and pants down to his ankles, his prick already hard in anticipation. He has the small pot of lube and he coats his fingers liberally before he starts to push them into himself. It’s quick and a little rough, but that’s okay with Draco. He doesn’t want to waste time, doesn’t want to risk discovery, not when he is _finally_ going to have the tree’s prick up his arse.

He bends forward while he does it, taking that prick into his mouth, using his tongue and lips to spread the sap over the bark, smoothing the surface. He takes his time, loving the weight of is on his tongue, the feel when he pushes forward and lets it touch his throat.

This isn’t going to be easy, he knows, but it is going to be _good_.

Draco struggles with a third finger, unable to find the right angle to push it past the rim. He knows that he may not be fully ready, but he’s going to try anyway.

He turns, eases back until he feels the thick knob of the tree’s prick nudging at his arse. He leans into it, feels the stretch and pull, and the burn of something so much larger than anything he’s ever taken before.

It means going slowly, pushing against it, then retreating, opening himself up by millimeters until he feels himself opened far too wide to take the head in. There is a moment of resistance before the head of the wooden prick narrows, and he suddenly slides further back as it fucks into him.

“Merlin!” His cry echoes in the confines of this part of the greenhouse, shouting back at him as it bounces off of unseen walls. Draco bites his tongue, trying not to make another sound, but it’s hard, and a groan slips free.

He moves slowly, carefully, letting the lubrication that he has worked inside himself and the sap that flows from the prick ease the way, until he feels wet slip between his thighs, and the thrusts become easier. That’s when it feels _good_ , like he can’t possibly get enough, and he rocks back onto it, driving it deeper until the root of it becomes so thick that he can’t possibly take it.

He wonders if it would be easier if it weren’t quite so long, or perhaps if it were _real_ and thrusting into him with the ability to move and jerk just so to stroke him from the inside out.

Draco imagines a faceless man behind him, someone with _this prick_ fucking him hard into the mattress, and he almost comes from that thought alone.

He wraps a hand around his prick, stroking it slowly, trying to keep the orgasm at bay. He doesn’t want it to end too soon—who knows if he’ll ever come back—but he can’t stand being at the edge for too long. He tilts his hips, trying to take just a little more, and feels the prick touch something inside of him that lights fires in his soul.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, and he’s surprised when the word echoes back in another voice.

He stills abruptly, hand wrapped around his prick, hanging like an awkward decoration, impaled upon this wooden cock.

“Malfoy?”

Longbottom stands there, staring at him, and Draco is aware that his robes are up around his waist and his trousers about his ankles. He dangles in mid-air, arse filled by the thickness of this prick, and his own erection angrily red and close to exploding.

He sneers at Longbottom. “Do you have a _problem_?”

Draco treats it as if this were nothing more than normalcy. As if Draco belongs here, and Longbottom is the interloper.

Longbottom blinks twice, and when he shifts slightly, Draco can see the shadow in his Muggle jeans, the long hard ridge of a growing prick. No robes for Longbottom; no, he dresses like the Muggles do, with dirt ground into the knees of his denims to match the dirt trapped in the beds of his short, rough fingernails. “I do,” Longbottom says quietly. “And I’m wondering if you might be willing to help with it.”

His hands fall to the waistband of his jeans, large fingers curled slightly, thumbs hooked in close by the fly, just starting to undo the button. Longbottom’s gaze is locked on Draco, waiting.

Draco knows exactly what he wants, but he doesn’t understand _why_. He curls his lip, as if he has any room to bargain, standing as he is with a tree’s prick shoved in his arse. “What makes you think I want _your_ prick?”

“You’ve already got it in your arse,” Longbottom says easily. “These are Mimicking Maples. They take on the appearance of people who work with them, sometimes. That one over there looks like Luna.” He gestures at one of the trees Draco noticed before, with the entwined trunk in the vague shape of a female figure. “This one’s mine.”

“So you’re saying…” Draco can’t quite bring himself to complete the thought.

Longbottom’s smile quirks. “The wooden prick up your arse is exactly like mine, yes.” He picks open the button on his jeans, pushing the fly wide to show the bulge pushing his pants out. “And you like having it there, anyone could see that. Think you’d like having one in your mouth as well?”

Draco is at a disadvantage here, his body aching for more while his mind wars with him, begging him to say _no_. He fails to listen to that inner warning, instinct making him nod, reach out to help Longbottom take those steps towards him. “Off,” he mutters, and Longbottom complies, pushing pants and trousers down, kicking them to the side.

And oh, Longbottom’s prick is as magnificent as the tree, but it is _warm_ rather than cool, _smooth and silky_ rather than rough. The shape, however, is _exactly_ the same as Draco has already memorized in wood, and he strokes it eagerly. He wraps his long fingers around the base with both hands, holding him as Longbottom presses the tip against his lips, waits for Draco to open up and let him in.

He opens slowly, letting Longbottom push past his lips, taking what Draco offers with a quick thrust. He has to open up to accept, and Longbottom’s fingers tangle in his hair, holding his head as if there were somewhere he could go. The only way to retreat is pushing back against the tree, the thick wooden prick going deeper in his arse. Draco whines, a low vibration, and Longbottom makes a soft noise of his own.

Draco opens more, tries to give Longbottom space to thrust. He knows he can take this prick—he _has_ taken this prick—into his throat, knows he can let it fuck him. He whines _please_ , the world muffled and indistinct, but Longbottom seems to take his meaning. Longbottom rocks on his feet, thrusting into Draco’s mouth, fucking into him deeper with every stroke, until all Draco can think is that he’s filled at both ends with Longbottom’s amazing thick prick.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

He lets Longbottom control the motion, his own prick swaying in the breeze. He feels how heavy his balls are, how light his body feels. His eyes close, and he gives himself over to the sensation of both pricks going so deep into him that he wonders if they could meet in the middle.

When he comes, it is almost an afterthought, his body letting go of the remains of any tension, spurting out fluid over the ground. Draco goes limp, and Longbottom holds him up, pushing in with a deep growl before he lets his own release come, flooding Draco’s senses and throat. He swallows greedily, loving this even more than the sticky sap from the tree.

He is pliable and easy to move as Longbottom pulls him forward, the tree’s prick slipping from his arse and the robes sliding down to cover him. Longbottom holds him, arms wrapped firmly around him, hands rubbing at his back and shoulders. Draco’s head falls against his shoulder—when did Longbottom get so bloody _tall?_ —and he leaves his eyes closed, content to stay like this for a long moment.

“All right there, Malfoy?” Longbottom murmurs, and Draco nods, not trusting his throat, raw as it feels.

Silence stretches out, broken only by the low sound of breath, raspy and rough. Draco feels when Longbottom’s chest lifts and falls in a sigh.

“Next time we could go at it the other way ‘round,” Longbottom murmurs. “Since it seems you liked this, and I know I did.”

Draco can see it in his mind’s eye, bent over with his hands on the trunk, the wooden prick dripping sweet fluid into his throat while Longbottom fucks him brutally from behind. It’s almost enough to arouse him all over again, if he had any energy left. “Tomorrow,” he says finally. “I don’t think I’ve got a second round in me today.”

Longbottom’s hands still, and his tone is slightly tense as he says, “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

Draco opens his eyes and tilts his head back, pushing away enough so he can more easily look Longbottom in the eye. “Your prick is a thing of fucking beauty,” he says, as seriously as he can manage. “I assure you, Longbottom, I intend to ride it as often as you will allow. I can’t imagine that there’s no one else putting it to good use at the moment.”

Longbottom coughs. “No, there’s no one else. Just two pricks going to waste. Me and the tree,” he adds, when Draco says nothing.

Draco wonders if Longbottom found it as hot to see him fucked by the tree as Draco found it to actually _be_ fucked by the tree. Given the strength of his erection, Draco suspects that’s so.

He smirks, pleased. “What a good thing I stumbled onto this place, and you stumbled upon me taking my pleasures with your tree. It truly is an excellent replica, and as I said, a thing of beauty. I shall be happy to give it the attention it deserves, as long as you reciprocate in a properly worshipful manner.”

He is still close enough to feel the rumble of Longbottom’s chuckle. “I think that can be arranged. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Draco agrees.

It is awkward to disengage, to let Longbottom step back and watch as he pulls on his pants and jeans once more. Draco takes more time with putting himself back together. At first, Longbottom lingers on the edge of his vision, as if perhaps he will wait for Draco and they will walk back up to the castle together. Which is shite, of course; no one wants to be seen with Draco after the war.

So he takes his time, making certain that every crease is perfect, that his robes fall just so. By the time he is done, Longbottom has left and Draco is alone to make his way back into Hogwarts. He doesn’t see Longbottom along the way, but he is aware of him later that evening at dinner, sitting with the other so-called 8th year students from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.

He won’t look at Longbottom; he doesn’t want to know if he is looking back.

But at night, in the dorm room where all the 8th year boys sleep, Draco spells his curtains shut and listens, trying to seek out the sound of Longbottom’s moans. And he strokes himself while imagining that prick— _Longbottom’s_ prick—and he knows that tomorrow cannot come soon enough.


End file.
